His boots had golden spurs, a gilt belt held up his sword; but his only
dress was a silk shirt and silk hose. He laughed and sang, and made his
horse caracol, and tossed his lance in the air, and caught it by the
point, like Taillefer at Hastings, as he passed under the window.
She threw open the blind, careless of all appearances. She would have
called to him: but the words choked her; and what should she say?
He looked up boldly, and smiled.
"Farewell, fair lady mine. Drunk I was last night: but not so drunk as to
forget a promise."
And he rode on, while Torfrida rushed away and broke into wild weeping.
CHAPTER XIII.
HOW HEREWARD WON MARE SWALLOW.
On a bench at the door of his high-roofed wooden house sat Dirk
Hammerhand, the richest man in Walcheren. From within the house sounded
the pleasant noise of slave-women, grinding and chatting at the handquern;
from without, the pleasant noise of geese and fowls without number. And as
he sat and drank his ale, and watched the herd of horses in the fen, he
thought himself a happy man, and thanked his Odin and Thor that owing to
his princely supplies of horses to Countess Gertrude, Robert the Frison
and his Christian Franks had not harried him to the bare walls, as they
would probably do ere all was over.
Pages:
199
200
201
202
203
204
205
206
207
208
209
210
211
212
213
214
215
216
217
218
219
220
221
222
223